


All is blood

by Taera



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Blood Drinking, First Time, M/M, Missing Scene, Vampires, it has potential to go VERY dark but I'll leave it at that, maybe they'll find a way to stop it, somewhat during and after the dlc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 16:26:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17083748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taera/pseuds/Taera
Summary: “Regis, let me go,” he’s trying to speak softly, like with a sensitive child. He’s keeping his pulse under fiercest of controls, all to maintain this thin string of composure his friend is still clinging to. And he is clinging, it’s clear as day by the way his fingers twitch restlessly, clenching and relaxing, his body shaking. Regis moans painfully, breathes loudly and presses closer yet, keeps savoring his smell. For the time being, only his smell.





	All is blood

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Все кровь](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13559808) by [Tatrien (Taera)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taera/pseuds/Tatrien). 



> So, uh, it's been, like, literally more than a year since my last English publication, and I'm sorry (I know I have many other texts to translate, I KNOW). I'm trying to tackle them on the first-in-first-out basis, but knowing me, it's safe to assume that nothing is true and everything is possible, soooo.
> 
> As to the story at hand, well, I so love those two, I can't really get enough of them (if only you saw my to-write list, oh boy). And it's sad, the way they got it going in here, and I sincerely hope they change their coping mechanisms before it's too late.  
> Please, don't enable your partner into doing something as bad as drinking blood is for Regis.  
> /wraps him in blankets/
> 
> Not beta-read, all mistakes are mine, do point them out if you see any.  
> Enjoy! :)

“Regis, no” Geralt is resisting, he’s really trying to tear his friend away from him already, but Regis’ hold is strong, he’s pressing into him from head to toe, his exhausted breathing loud in Geralt’s ear.

The heady smell of herbs is mixing with the vampire’s true scent, and the medallion is vibrating slightly against his chest, sensing the proximity of a non-human. Geralt forbids himself to panic, although he’s neither quite joyous at the fact he wasn’t bitten yet. Throughout their road back from Tesham Mutna Geralt felt almost physical pain at the sight of his worn-out friend, in awe with the vampire’s self-control. Finally under the dusty roof of the crypt, Geralt relaxes, but, as it turns out, he shouldn’t have done that. With a painful groan Regis jumps at him, pushes into the wall and buries his nose in the his neck. Sparks prickle down Geralt’s nerves, yet he forbids himself from getting nervous, he diligently crushes all the emotions.

“Regis, let me go,” he’s trying to speak softly, like with a sensitive child. He’s keeping his pulse under fiercest of controls, all to maintain this thin string of composure his friend is still clinging to. And he _is_ clinging, it’s clear as day by the way his fingers twitch restlessly, clenching and relaxing, his body shaking. Regis moans painfully, breathes loudly and presses closer yet, keeps savoring his smell. For the time being, only his smell.

The swords are very close, behind his back, but much as he’d like to, Geralt won’t unsheathe one of them in time. In this moment he almost regrets not having even a simple knife on his belt, but all these thoughts run through his head like ghosts; he still cannot imagine he’d be able to seriously hurt Regis. The vampire’s shoulders are hard under his hands, and don’t move an inch when he tries to carefully push; Regis shudders violently. Geralt forces himself to stand still, wills himself into a living statue, motionless and full of blood. Only his hands slowly slide down, find their place on Regis’ waist. Geralt feels his tension rising even higher, the vampire not breathing loudly anymore. He’s like a crossbow ready to be fired. Now they only have to make it through and don’t fall.

Cold coils inside when Geralt feels lips on his skin, just above the collar of the breastplate, where his pulse is most prominent. He cannot help it; he swallows dryly. His heart skips a beat and fastens its pace as those cool lips press firmer to his throat and sharp teeth tickle, promising blood.

“Re-” he chokes on the name, cries out when fangs pierce his flesh, blood gushing out right towards the hungry vampire. With the pain comes the heat, and somewhere far away there’s realization that Regis bit him very carefully, applying little of his strength.

Geralt is resisting with full zeal, using all his strength; for several seconds he regrets not drinking the Black Blood beforehand, and then prepares to make Aard.

But it’s too late.

After the heat comes the cold, it crawls from fingers up his body higher and higher, gaining strength with every gulp of blood taken from him. In this cold, sparks and lightnings come to life, and Geralt sighs, almost moans. He’s not pushing his friend away anymore; there’s enough in him left only to cling to consciousness, and not much else. The medallion is white-hot, it’s shaking in a hysterical fit between the two of them, like a bird straining to get out of its cage. Fingers grip Geralt’s sides hard, undoubtedly bruising, but gradually the grasp softens. Regis drinks slower, tongue sliding around the wound; he’s not blinded by instincts anymore, yet he doesn’t finish his meal. For some reason, Geralt doesn’t have any strength to protest even in his thoughts, all he can do is sluggishly try to get in the way when Regis starts undoing his armor. Geralt knows he didn’t lose _that_ much blood, he knows that something else is responsible for his condition. He knows Regis did something, yet right now he doesn’t care; he’s too fuzzy for any of that.

Regis pulls out his fangs, his lips pressing to the wound instead, as he’s lapping at the blood that’s sluggishly seeping out His rough tongue sends goosebumps down Geralt’s spine, distracts him from the clanks of armor being tossed aside. Warmth and cold twist together into something small and tight inside, and Geralt gasps involuntarily when cool hands press right atop this tangle, somehow almost pulling at it, taking all of the breath away. The claws prickle a little, scratching skin and making it even harder to breathe. Haze in his head isn’t getting anywhere, but just for a moment Geralt gets a flash of himself standing, his back firmly against the wall, his head thrown up and back, his arms hanging loose at his sides; then this awareness blends into background and disappears. Only cool hands on his stomach and shivering medallion keep him from completely loosing connection to reality.

Geralt catches Regis’ eye but doesn’t see his friend in those deep black pools. He sees somebody else, foreign yet surprisingly familiar at the same time. And for some reason it suddenly gets very hot, the motley stains dancing under his closed eyelids.

And then he comes to himself with a start, sitting up abruptly and clutching his head as it starts spinning violently the moment he moves. Hissing silently through his teeth, Geralt looks around. He’s still in his friend’s crypt, his armor and weapons lying on a nearby crate. His neck is bandaged, and judging by the smell and the slight itch of quickened regeneration, the wound was treated with some strong salve. Geralt feels surprisingly good considering he didn’t drink any Swallow and was drained of uncertain amount of blood recently. His body’s buzzing with energy, itching to do something- _anything_ , the desire sharpened with unspent adrenaline.

Regis is sitting on a chair by the cauldron, almost opposite the makeshift bed. He’s sitting with his elbows at his knees and his head in his hands, regret literally radiating from his form. Geralt stands up, tentatively moves his shoulders and checks the reaction. After that, he quickly dresses up, concentrating all his attention on the task at hand and keeping silent.

“I am sorry for my inability to control myself,” Regis’ voice is unexpectedly flat and muffled.

“Well, I’m alive and stand on my own two feet, although I could’ve been lying cold dead on the floor. It means you didn’t lose control after all. Regis, I do not blame you,” Geralt tries not to look too closely at his memories of what happened, because this bite was too different from all the others he had the opportunity to experience in his life. Too different. And not in a necessarily bad way.

His friend’s black eyes have a strange glint to them, almost feverish.

“You do not understand.”

“Do you want to enlighten me?”

Regis frowns, then only shakes his head. Freezes. Breathes in deeply with his nose and, swallowing, drops his head and hides it in his hands. A light breeze moves the disheveled hair at the nape of Geralt’s neck.

“Is it that bad?” Geralt sincerely wants to help his friend, only right now he feels apprehensive even from the mere idea of coming closer. The medallion shakes slightly, making Geralt’s frown deeper. Normally, Regis controls himself much better.

Tesham Mutna had left its mark.

“Worse. But I will manage.”

“Good. You get back to yourself, and in the meantime I’ll make the potion, alright?”

“Geralt,” Regis nearly groans, sinking fingers into his knees and ignoring the fabric tearing there. “I had hoped for the better, but right now I cannot trust myself, and I implore you not to do so either.” The vampire swallows loudly, catches Geralt’s gaze. Again, in the dark eyes he sees the heat that is impossible to explain with just bloodlust. “You- you are even more delicious that I feared. Go. I will find you when I’ve regained my faculties.”

And he does find him the next evening, once again composed, calm and gentle. Then they make the potion, and Geralt is almost surprised how easily he agrees to drink the Resonance after everything that happened yesterday. Because he knows perfectly well he’d be completely helpless. He’d be at the mercy of a vampire who already made it clear what he thought about Geralt’s blood. This memory sends shiver down his spine, and so Geralt shoves it as deep as he can; now is not the time nor the place.

For some reason, the memories are in monochrome, but the lack of color is not an issue with all these _bright_ emotions weaving through them. Emotions, the kind of which Geralt never actually felt in his entire life. Bitterness, anger, loneliness, pain, joy, hope, despair. Madness, everything intertwined, flaring up, boiling from one into another. These short fragments Geralt sees- _lives_ through Dettlaff’s memories and his very _soul_ , and all these emotions are painful in their intensity. If Geralt could, he would’ve cried, so bad he felt.

The first thing from the real world that he feels is a coppery taste of blood in his mouth. The second one are his own emotions, blissfully dull and flat in comparison to the turmoil in Dettlaff’s soul.

He’s lying on the very same cot Regis left him on to recover from the bite yesterday. This thought is closely followed by a full-body shiver making Geralt bite on his lower lip, and, consequently, wince at the flash of pain; while he was exploring Dettlaff’s memories, he, it seems, somehow managed to chew all over his lower lip. Several seconds later Geralt finds out he’s able to move it, although it’s quite, _quite_ painful.

Perhaps, every last one of his sufferings are worth the sight on Regis’ face when he returns from his walk and, stopping dead in his tracks, gawks at him. The vampire literally chokes on the air he doesn’t need, his black eyes clearly saying “Damn it, Geralt, what the hell have you _done_?!”. Regis gulps down, presses his lips closely together. His nostrils are flaring, and Geralt knows for sure: his friend catches every last note of his blood in the air.

But Regis keeps himself under rigid control, he helps Geralt take care of the wound. A mouthful of Swallow hurries regeneration along, so in half an hour there wouldn’t be any trace of it. Regis… holds steady. Geralt feels like an idiot and a bastard for his intentional attempts at undermining his friend’s patience. He’s curious. Thoughts of the bite swirl around in his head, more persistent with every passing second, unbelievably irritating and at the same time intriguing. And all that despite the fact he’s perfectly aware of, the fact that Regis cannot drink his blood. He must not.

Fortunately for them both, the vampire keeps himself in check.

They part with warm farewells, Geralt rushes to Corvo Bianco- to catch some sleep, although he suspects he won’t be able to, not today.

The toy shop they find the next morning, and Geralt doesn’t distract himself with personal matters, at least not too much. He successfully ignores the prickling of his curiosity, completely concentrates on searching for Dettlaff.

The air in the toy shop is stale, warm with candlelight, sharp smells of varnish and paint, with delicate notes of freshly adzed wood. All signs pointing out to the other vampire being here quite recently. Geralt’s hair at the nape of his neck is standing on end from the feeling of someone watching him, but Regis behaves as if nothing’s amiss, and so Geralt ignores his instincts. He, it seems, starts to sympathize with Dettlaff.

Or he just cannot refuse his friend and readily looks at their situation from his point of view.

They stand among the dusty shelves full of forgotten toys, and Geralt invites Regis to stay at Corvo Bianco, even if only for a little while. He’s ready to hear some thing or other, quite polite and maybe even logical, in effect being definitive refusal, but the vampire burns him with his black gaze for several moments, and… accepts. Geralt thinks that for a second he sees a familiar stranger in his friend’s eyes, and his mouth immediately goes dry. Alas, they have too much to do, and so they part their ways without touching any unnecessary topics.

Geralt suppresses inarticulate irritation that unfailingly jerks up its head every time he has to deal with the Duchess. They finish with the wine problem only around midnight, and back home Geralt returns dead tired. He is _not_ looking forward to the ball he must attend the next evening, but what you wouldn’t do to complete a contract.

 

When exactly do the fantasies come he has no idea. But they are easy to control and don’t interfere with his work, so he doesn’t stamp them out in the beginning. He even indulges himself in them a little, when there’s nothing interesting going on on the road. Only some small thoughts about that bite at Mère-Lachaiselongue, nothing serious.

The depths of his delusions become obvious to him the moment he sees Regis and just- _reacts_ to his presence. Geralt has no idea whether he managed to hide it from the other vampires or not. Probably not. But even this unexpected development doesn’t stop Geralt from getting angry at his friend for dragging Dettlaff out here.

His heated speech dies in the middle of a sentence when he notices how carefully Regis keeps his distance, and the rest of the way to the cellars they make in deep silence. All hangs in a precarious balance; and then Geralt, without thinking too much of it, grabs some crate to move it out of the way, and, of course, by all the Sod’s laws rips his palm open on a crooked nail sticking out from the side. Not too deeply and, all things considered, not serious in the least, but.

 _B_ _ut_.

Regis hisses, annoyed, recoils to the farthest wall and nearly topples over the shelves with bottles. Geralt hisses, too, instinctively pressing his wound to his mouth, so that he wouldn’t stain everything with blood. He’s not really surprised to see the familiar stranger in Regis’ dark eyes.

The most sensible thing to do right now would be to turn around and get out of the cellar, give Regis time to calm down and choose the wine they, allegedly, went down here to get in the first place. Another good idea was to clean up and wash his face- after all, there was no need to unnecessarily tease the vampires.

He should turn around and go.

Only his feet got frozen to the floor, and uninvited thoughts assault his mind, and Geralt realizes what he’s doing only when he’d already offered his wounded hand to Regis, holding it palm-up to keep the blood in it, instead of it immediately trickling down to the floor. For several long moments Regis looks at him with wide open eyes, as if he sees him for the firsts time in his life. He looks and does not move. And then something changes.

Strong fingers grab his forearm, and the embroidered fabric of Geralt’s jacket does nothing at all to interfere with his ability to feel every littlest detail of the touch, but what makes him shudder, is the moment when he feels tongue on his palm. Regis looks him straight in the eyes, diligently licking away all of the blood that came out and intently watching his reaction. Geralt was no stranger to the sight of a monster greedily lapping up his blood, but, somehow, right now it is completely different. Right now, instead of aversion and anger he feels only strange warmth and contentment, almost relief.

His chest burns and stings, making Geralt realize he’s holding his breath. He inhales noisily through his nose, tastes the smell of Regis, but not the one mixed with the herbs, another one. So much other that Geralt notices the change, understands that something’s wrong. The dark gaze drags him in, coaxes to leave the real world behind, only now the pressure is weaker than that time at Mère-Lachaiselongue, and Geralt slowly but surely fights back and regains his free will.

He shakes himself, jerks his hand from the vampire’s grasp (is allowed to) and opens his mouth to tell his friend everything he thinks about his tricks, but freezes when, suddenly, the vampire is right there in front of him. Then Regis smiles and (Geralt’s head goes empty and clear, he doesn’t know what to think and how to react, so he only closes his mouth with a click of his teeth) starts licking blood off his lips and chin. Clawed hand tangles into his hair, keeping him in place, and it’s as though Regis is touching not his skin but bare nerves, burning them up a little more with every touch.

And literally a second away from Geralt deciding to finally react and make this indecency into proper kiss Regis moves back a little and looks intently at his handiwork. He even nods with satisfaction, bastard, smiling with only corners of his lips.

“There, now you’re completely clean,” if you don’t listen too close, you would miss the barely-there tremor in his voice.

All that’s left for Geralt to do is shake his head and, bandaging his hand, herd his thoughts back under control. He’s not ready to think about what the hell had they just done yet. The Duchess is still breathing down his neck, and right now she’s in the company of two vampires while he’s here with Regis, doing gods know what. Thoughts of Dettlaff finally return Geralt into proper working mood. And he’s angry at his friend again, so he rains his displeasure on the vampire, not even trying to filter his language.

After that, everything goes downhill, _fast_ , and there’s no time at all to get some personal problems straight, and Geralt really _thinks_ about what’s going on between him and Regis only when he’s already in prison. Thrown there by the Duchess for the death of her beloved sister. Sister, who, by the way, quite openly craved for the Duchess’ death, but no, Anarietta is not troubled by these trifles; she simply doesn’t notice them.

The release is an extremely pleasant surprise, and Geralt feels warmth inside when thinking about his friends. Who are awesome like that, ready to draw upon them the wrath of a crown-bearer just to pull out of the pile of shit one specific witcher. By his ponytail.

As a cherry on top, Regis drags him for a walk and to find the name of Syanna’s fifth victim. And it’s just like the good old times, only with one difference. One little difference that, in fact, has no effect on the results of their work together whatsoever. Now Geralt knows that Regis holds back a quite tangible thirst for his blood.

The novelty of this knowledge doesn’t trouble any of them. They’ve adapted.

Of course, being sober, he has not the slightest idea on how to make an unusual offer to his friend, so he readily accepts the invitation to come sit at Mère-Lachaiselongue, split a bottle of Regis’ special mandrake moonshine. Yet, even with the alcohol inside him, Geralt brings himself to ask only closer to morning- not coming up with anything eloquent, he offers to bite himself in just as many words. Regis stills immediately, and, perhaps, even sobers up, so intent is his gaze when he meets the eyes of his friend.

“This is dangerous.”

“We’ll be careful.”

“Geralt-”

“I’ve made an offer. It will still stand even after I’m sober.”

For some time they sit there and watch each other. Then Regis sighs and smiles a little, almost hesitantly. “Good. Thank you.”

Sun lazily climbs up the sky.

 

Regis prefers to come late at night, but infrequently enough. Sometimes they get an opportunity to talk, exchange news and share a bottle of wine. Sometimes Geralt is already asleep by this time, and then he wakes up from the feeling of someone’s presence nearby. Sometimes he’s meditating or even simply lying somewhere out on the meadow, watching the night sky, tormenting himself with memories.

And with every time Regis bite more and more naturally, although he’s extremely careful to only drink no more than four mouthfuls, after which he diligently licks the bite clean and dresses it with bandages. Everything is relatively civil until they switch to bites on the neck. Geralt realizes that their… pact starts getting out of hand somewhere about the time when Regis, sitting astride on top of him, arches his back in a most sinful way and presses their groins together. It becomes too hot after that imagery, and hands move on their own accord, grabbing the vampire’s thighs, keeping him in place.

They don’t go beyond kisses (sharp, sweet and heady), but Regis starts visiting more. Not only seeking blood or pleasant company with a bottle of wine, no, it’s almost like he has a wholly new thirst awakened. It’s hard for Geralt to blame him, for he, too, feels the tension growing between them with startling clarity.

“Geralt, don’t,” Regis’ hands are on Geralt’s shoulders, fingers gripping hard enough for the nails to sting through the shirt, but he’s not really pushing him away. Geralt smirks and folds down onto his knees, greedily moving his hands along the cool torso and reveling in the way Regis arches into his touch, at the same time trying to stop him from doing too much.

He’s not very good at this- soon, Geralt shakes the vampire out of the clothes and drops him onto the bed, remaining upright between his parted legs and appraising the work ahead of him. Judging by the look in Regis’ eyes, he’s sober enough to comprehend what is happening in its entirety and, if necessary, stop it, but all he does is raise himself on his elbows and gaze back up at Geralt, mischievous little smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Deceptively obedient and pliant, quick to answer and sharp with his tongue. In more ways than one.

Geralt knows by now how to shut him up, quickly and for a long period of time; the kiss tastes of blood, and Regis groans, burrowing his hands through Geralt’s hair, his whole body moving forward to meet him halfway. His lips burn, and when Geralt bites down onto the vampire’s shoulder, Regis shudders, as if stricken by a lightning, and suddenly crumples up the sheets, his movements sharp and jerky. Geralt is in no way surprised to hear the fabric tear apart, and, seeing long claws, realizes what kind of fate Regis has saved him from- because only a moment ago one of his hands has been at the nape of Geralt’s neck.

Perhaps, these transformations were the reason why Regis did not want to do more than kiss, but Geralt has no troubles with them. He’s too excited, and he _knows_ Regis too well to be scared off by claws and fangs. And the sheets can be replaced, so no problem there either.

Regis allows him everything; draw fingernails along his pale skin, bite lightly where he’s most sensitive, touch anywhere. His breathing is hard, moans slipping away on every other exhale, and Geralt sees how the lines of his face are trembling, the vampire barely holding onto his human mask. There’s something especially gratifying in the understanding that Geralt is able to get Regis to this point. The arousal does not abate even when familiar visage finally changes into its more bestial form. It’s all in the eyes. They tell better that any of the words ever could what exactly is on Regis’ mind right now. Not murder, no. His eyes burn, this heat sends a shudder along Geralt’s spine, melting it with liquid fire, making him bite on his lower lip.

Of course, soon after that Regis looses his patience and with a short growl presses Geralt to the bed, slashing his pants along the way. Leaving several scratches almost on accident, immediately licking along them, gathering the swelling drops of blood and growling a little. The slight burning soon fades into the hot arousal, and now it is time for Geralt to lie and crumble the sheets- even if he wanted, it is simply not possible to ignore how the long and nimble tongue slides up and around his cock, how the sharp, _sharp_ fangs are just one tiny mistake away from his flesh. The danger bubbles inside, and Regis understands; he’s using it, Geralt sees that in his sly eyes.

In truth, Geralt didn’t even think of doing more, but it’s hard to protest when he’s mounted almost bossily, with thin red lines left in the wake of the claws. Regis does not waste any time, only groans “Help me”, and his intentions couldn’t be any clearer. They both shudder and burn from bottom to top when Regis, without further ado, lowers himself onto Geralt with one smooth motion. Only his vast experience in sex with sorceresses keeps Geralt from cuming right on the spot, although his self-control does shatter into tiny pieces.

He is not surprised that the one controlling everything is not him but Regis, even when, technically, the vampire’s on the receiving end. It’s not important. What is, though, is that by the time they both sate themselves, the bedroom looks more like a battlefield, the feathers from the torn pillows hopelessly entangled in their mussed hair. And how pleasantly burn and sting all the scratches he’s now sporting from head to toe, and how his heartbeat has a dull echo in the bitemark on his shoulder; Regis, reaching his high, couldn’t contain his instincts. The only one whole and intact left in the room is the vampire, content, satisfied and languid.

Barnaba-Basil has quite the lively days ahead of him.


End file.
